


Love At a Distance

by susiephalange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6916654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft cannot be the perfect husband -- just as much as you cannot be the perfect wife.  It's his line of work.  He can't change that.  How does it work?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love At a Distance

If you were tired after a day of what you often did, staying close to the proximity of the home or followed discretely around London in your everyday life by a bodyguard, you knew that your husband, the powerhouse of the government was most likely double that.

  
Whenever he returned to the home, you used to not know better than to console a tired, grumpy man with empty, cheery words. He would have eaten when out, so kind small talk over a dinner you'd put blood, sweat and tears into was not an option. The grey blue bags on his eyes grew more prominent with every night of sleep missed when pouring over detail and rule books, leaving you in an empty bed. A cold bed.

You'd had worse; you wouldn't complain.

His brother had warned you that marriage to the elder Holmes brother would result in all assortments of dissatisfaction. He said before you had walked down the isle that his brother was a focused, academic man who wouldn't relent for anything, not even the charms of a wife. You knew this to a degree, somewhere inside of you in the courtship. But you hadn't wanted to believe it.

Time passed. A year, then two.

Sherlock had fallen, but you knew what had truly happened. You had listened at the keyhole of his office that night. You had seen the newspapers, the news footage, the file Mycroft had left open on his desk when you had gone in to take his empty teacup.

He lived.

In this time that had gone by, you had learned how to live with the busiest man in this corner of the Northern Hemisphere.

You learned to leave notes of nice messages around the house in colourful papers he'd see when his eyes weren't clouded over with work when on the phone to Anthea or a member of parliament.

You'd text inspirational quotes and cutesy reminders of your love in moments you would know he'd be free from the stresses of the workplace.

Anthea would call ahead on his return home - whenever that would be, be it what hour or month it would - with advice on what mood he was in.

  
When he'd crash into bed, you'd feel him gravitate toward you and envelop you in his arms. He'd always think you asleep - it was always a ghastly hour he'd join you for slumber - until you would whisper to him he'd done a great job of his day.

Sherlock Holmes had told you that you would be dissatisfied. Maybe you were. But you loved Mycroft. From the tips of your toes, the bottom of your heart to the peak of your head. And maybe that meant loving him from a distance.

 

 

  
Like an elderly Bilbo Baggins, Mycroft Holmes felt stretched thin, like too much butter scraped over bread. It would seem the career he had taken would result in sleeplessness and the need to constantly complete everything to a degree better than perfection in the workplace. His coworkers looked up to him. Colleagues congratulated him. The Prime Ministers he'd worked under would send Christmas cards reading of their undying thanks for his servitude. Even the Queen has sent gratitude once, for the recovery of one of her dogs.

  
And yet, when the sun set, he couldn't help but feel tired. Worn down. Somewhat morally defeated. He was practically the British government, you know. He'd ignore the advice to take days off, to slow down, to 'take it easy' ("define easy", he'd reply). But he knew, deep inside his mind, close to his heart, that no matter how grumbly he would be, how stark his mood would be, how deep his brow furrowed or jaw set, his wife, the beautiful Mrs _______ Holmes was at home for him to be reminded that there was some peace in this tumultuous world.

That he could find a sort of peace.

Early into their marriage days, she would make him dinner, and he could tell they were amazing. Much better than the ruddy sandwiches he would eat to keep going when he stayed late at the office. But he could never eat, if he did, it would add weight loss to the list of his problematic to-do list. He knew she noticed his sleep patterns; they shared a bed whenever he came home long enough to sleep beside her.

At the Holmes _______ wedding, when Sherlock had returned to stand in the position of Best Man, before the wedding march had started, Sherlock had leant toward him to murmur.

"You're not good enough for ______." His brother had told him. "You and her live in different worlds, you'll only disappoint her. She deserves better."

Mycroft had frowned. Turned to his brother with sort of a pout. "From what evidence?" He demanded quietly, quickly. From the corner of his eye he could see his mother and father noticing the whisperings, and had begun whispering between themselves.

"..." Sherlock took a deep breath, "Its in your nature, brother mine."

The wedding had gone smoothly. And the honeymoon as well. Yet Sherlock's prediction had come true when they returned to day to day life.

When Sherlock had jumped, he had returned home to find you distraught, but he suspected that you had overheard the plans in the aftermath, not because the tears had stopped, but life had just gone on as normal.

He noticed changes in every thing though.

That he would find a small smile tugging on his lips whenever he found a note from you in the home - 'I love you to the moon and back' - which he would often pocket and use as bookmarks.

He'd leave his phone with Anthea whilst in meetings, and return from the problematic debates by older men in suits to find his inbox streaming with affirmations from his wife, and Anthea's lips struggling to refrain from smiling at what you'd written.

He knew Anthea was onto him when she began asking how he felt before he left for the day, and on replying, texted quickly.

And whether it be after a long day debating a political debacle or six months in Norway, whenever he would return to the home, he knew. It was where he belonged. The house had become a home, and he knew, there was one person who made that happen.

You.

Because when he slipped into the bed, he knew you were awake, were waiting for him, were always going to love him. He knew you thought he thought you were sleeping, and sleep-talked conformations of his greatness, but that's what he loved you for.

Your patience. A kiss on the cheek was few and far between being Mrs ________ Holmes.

A word in edge ways that wasn't to do with international policies.

Your smile. Like a Patronus charm from the Harry Potter books you loved so much, it banished away all ill thoughts that lurked in his mind.

  
Sherlock had told Mycroft that he wasn't good enough for _______ _______, now Holmes. Maybe yes, he wasn't. He was never around to show he did. But he loved you - from the handle of his umbrella to the tip, with all the fibre in his entire being, with more power than he would ever hold.

Mycroft Holmes loved you.

And that meant loving you from a distance.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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